Healing Waters
by poppets
Summary: Stiles loved long, hot showers. And, honestly, didn't he deserve the luxury? [Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fear, Showers, Love, Musings, Introspection]


Stiles loved long, hot showers. He knows he shouldn't delight in them as much as he does, what with global warming – and seriously, what a major bummer that is – and conserving finite resources and all that, but he just can't help himself. Hell, he tries to do nearly everything else to compensate for it – he recycles, he's nearly convinced his Dad to start composting, he remembers not to leave lights on when he leaves the house, he's seriously considering planting a vegetable garden, and he always remembers to take his own eco-friendly carry bags when he goes to the grocery store. So, how bad is the occasional long shower, really? Hell, he'd lead the campaign to outlaw swimming pools for their negative environmental impacts – and wouldn't that make him popular – if it meant he could keep taking long showers.

And, honestly, didn't he deserve the luxury, what with saving the populace of Beacon Hills from evil supernatural entities on a bi-weekly basis? He was a god damn hero… even if no one in town knew. But if they did, he was sure they would be anxious to reward him for his sacrifices. They'd probably offer to shower him with money, or fancy cars, maybe a scholarship to any college he wanted, and he'd definitely be able to eat for free in every restaurant in town. Of course, he'd turn it all down and tell the fine citizens of Beacon Hills that all he wanted was to be able to have long, hot showers whenever he so desired. They would be astonished, of course, and would marvel at his humility, wondering what they'd done to deserve such a modest hero.

Stiles shook his head at his slightly-delirious musings and sighed as he watched the dark swirl of blood as it disappeared down the drain, carried away by the torrent of steaming hot water. The aches and pains of yet another night in this hellhole of a town soothed away by the caress of the water.

How the fuck was this his life? How did he go from normal teenager with normal, everyday teenage problems to someone who fought evil werewolves, demonic spirits, and even fucking pixies on a frighteningly regular basis?

He wasn't fooling himself, he knew it was because of Scott, and his Dad, and the pack, and his own stupid brand of unrelenting loyalty. But he could have left, could have walked away and focused on his career and his future, and he knew they wouldn't have stopped him. They would have even understood. He often thought about it, just picking up and leaving. He could go to a college hundreds of miles away. Hell, he could just hop in his jeep and drive aimlessly across the country visiting all the places he'd dreamed of with not a single responsibility to slow him down.

He'd packed a bag one time, after a particularly bad run of terror and pain, an unrelenting string of evil trying to break them. They'd all been exhausted. So little sleep, no time to recover, no time to process, running on a dwindling supply of adrenalin until they were frayed at the edges. One night he'd broken, felt like he'd cracked in half, couldn't take one more moment of any of it. He'd gone home and packed a bag. Packed anything, everything. Packed stupid things that made no sense. Then he'd sat on his bed and stared at the it. Willed himself to pick it up and walk out the door. Pleaded with himself to just leave. But he hadn't and he didn't. He'd sobbed until he'd fallen asleep and, in the morning, he'd put the bag in his closet, still packed.

It had been a little easier after that. The bag was a promise to himself, ready for him when he eventually reached his limit and couldn't do this anymore.

He was surprised by how long he'd lasted, particularly after a night like tonight. It had been a night of fear and running and Stiles and his fragile, too easily broken human body throwing itself in front an attack meant for a werewolf. A reckless, impulsive move if there'd ever been one.

He wondered, idly, if tonight would be the night he left, walked away from it all. But the hot caress of the water was soothing to his body and to his soul and when lips pressed warm and slightly damp to the back of his neck and a strong hair-roughened arm curled gently around his chest, he felt the fear ebb away.

"Thank you, Stiles, for tonight." Derek's words were a hot brand against his skin. "Thank you for protecting me. For _always_ trying to protect me, no matter how stupid an idea it is. _Thank you_."

Stiles smiled softly and sank back against the strong body of the one person who truly felt like home.

They stood like that, wrapped tightly together, for a long time, letting the water pour over them and drown out the rest of the world.

Stiles knew why he stayed. He stayed for Derek, and this feeling of home, and the soothing effects of long, hot showers.

End.


End file.
